Portraits: Victims
by Prtyjedi
Summary: Stylized, short snapshots of the victims of the Dark Brotherhood
1. Chapter 1: The Hunted Man

I – The Hunted Man

Rufio hadn't really known what to do. He'd taken his things and set out. He'd walked in a kind of a daze. It had rained heavily, limiting visibility, adding to the surreality of the situation. Eventually he'd stumbled on an inn.

He paid for a room. He spent most of the time in the room. He didn't really do anything. He paced, twiddled this thumbs. He waited for something to happen. He came out of the room to use the privy, and to eat. When hungry, he would buy some bread from the innkeeper. Then he'd sit in a secluded corner and slowly eat the bread. But then a patrolling Imperial legionnaire started to make daily stops at the inn and Rufio decided to buy a whole bunch of bread, take it to his room, and not leave.

Time passed. Rufio didn't really keep track of time anymore. One day flowed into the next, nothing happening. One day he risked going upstairs and talking to the innkeeper. To Rufio's relief the legionnaire wasn't there. He asked the innkeeper what day it was. When he got his answer Rufio went back to his room.

Rufio worked out it had been two months. Nothing had happened. Maybe things were working out for the better. Tomorrow he'd leave, go to Bravil. No, no. Not there. Too close. To Leyawiin, at least. Maybe over the border. Yes, that seemed like a good idea. Realizing he was tired, Rufio went to sleep. For the first time in months his sleep was undisturbed.

Rufio never heard his killer. He died peacefully in his sleep.

_***_

_A/N: OK, welcome to my Portraits: Victims -series. The central idea of this is to provide short, hopefully artistic snapshots, vignettes if you will, of the victims of the Dark Brotherhood quest line. In this spirit, they aren't very long, so be kind and desist from leaving "yeah, nice but too short" reviews out. Everything else is fair game, really. The idea here is to provide short bits of text, as opposed to long and elaborate retellings of the situation. For reference, compare a haiku and a much lengthier poem. Think of this as a collection of haikus, except they aren't_


	2. Chapter 2: Greed and the Past

Portraits: Victims

II – Greed and the Past

Gaston Tussaud appreciated power. He had long since understood that those who had power ruled over those had none. If you didn't take advantage of that, then someone else would. They might even take advantage of you. Comforted by this knowledge Tussaud had set about his bloody reign as a pirate captain.

Tussaud leaned back in his chair by the dining table. He watched his First Mate fasten her trousers. With a sultry smile she walked out. Tussaud was satisfied, and if this didn't prove enough there was a little something in his trunk to help out. Curio might be a sick freak, but he wrote good.

Tussaud settled into a contemplative state. Tomorrow they'd set out and sail to Morrowind. He knew a few merchant routes they could hit on the way. They'd arrive in the land of the Dunmer bursting with cargo. It might be smart to stay there for a while. Cyrodiil was getting to be a hot place to be in.

Suddenly a noise, wood breaking, interrupted Tussaud's thoughts. His first reaction was that some idiot had broken something. Yells of surprise and anger followed. Tussaud didn't know what to make of it. As clangs of steel and cries of pain rang out Tussaud haltingly reached for his cutlass.

After a final resounding crash everything went silent. Tussaud stood before his dining table, cutlass in hand. Sweat beaded on his forehead and he bit his lip. He gripped his weapon tighter to prevent his hand from shaking. He wanted to shout out a challenge, but his dry throat only managed a hoarse croak.

Something wasn't right. He was a merciless pirate, with a reputation for dreadful acts of violence. He had seen more battle in his lifetime than some soldiers. He had braved the monsters of the seas. And now some little fight had reduced him to nervous wreck?

Finally the door slammed open as someone kicked it in. Through the cloud of sawdust and splinters strode a leather-clad figure, a wicked-looking curved vow in hand. The bowstring was pulled back. Tussaud's cutlass cluttered to the floor as terror washed over him and he fell on his knees. His killer let go of the taut bowstring and a barbed arrow buried itself in Tussaud's eye.

Gaston Tussaud finally met someone more powerful than him. What goes around comes around.


	3. Chapter 3: Intentions

Portraits: Victims

III – Intentions

Baenlin was liked, even loved, by those who knew him. He had made his fortune as a taxidermist and had sold his services around the land. His apprentices worked in service of famed lords and ladies. He gathered quite the fortune over the years. In fiscal comfort and security he had settled in Bruma with a nord bodyguard.

It was a cold, albeit not entirely unpleasant day. Baenlin had spent most of the day cutting through bureaucratic red tap, signing the last copies of his recently altered will. He was getting old. More and more days were spent in bed, for a lack of strength and want. Death was drawing near, and Baenlin welcomed it.

Gromm opened the door and took Baenlin's coat. The old bosmer sat by the fireplace and rested his weary bones. His nephew Caenlin would be visiting soon. Caenlin would be delighted to know even all the copies of the will were finalized. Baenlin smiled warmly to himself. His nephew was such a kind young man.

* * *

Gromm carried the old man's coat to the closet. His mind was on Caenlin's impending arrival. Something about the young man bothered Gromm. The nord knew he wasn't the brightest candle in the chandelier, but Caenlin's slick manner towards his uncle and casually callous manner towards the manservant unsettled him.

Something was nagging at Gromm's thoughts. There was something he had missed, or at best barely noticed. Gromm knew his job was overkill; no-one wanted to harm him. But as long as Baenlin treated him right Gromm would do his job as best he could.

A heavy crash resounded from the main room. Gromm hurried in only to find Baenlin sprawled on the floor, stuffed minotaur head to the right of him. Blood was pooling around the body. Gromm cried out in anguish and fell to his knees.

Days later Caenlin inherited all of his uncle's possessions. The road to Sithis is paved with good intentions.


	4. Chapter 4: Words

Portraits: Victims

IV – Words

Valen Dreth was hated by virtually all who knew him. He was an eloquent speaker and, if he so wished, he could've been an incredibly popular man, but somewhere down the road he had decided to use his wit as a weapon of his acerbic personality. Even now he was sitting in the Imperial Prison. He had insulted the wife of a nobleman and, during his subsequent arrest and incarceration, several other people.

Dreth woke up with a gleeful smile. He was getting out. Sitting in a cell didn't really suit him. It would be a shame, though, leaving behind all the prison guards. They were superb material to work with. Soon the morning meal shift would come 'round. That man was particularly touchy about his wife.

Some time later the guard left the hallway in a fluster. Dreth was smiling contentedly. Almost by themselves his eyes sough the opposite cell. That prisoner, that day, seemed like it all was just yesterday. That was mostly because in jail the days blended together, because of repetitive routine and the unchanging scenery.

The sun went down and the evening meal shift arrived. Wordplay ensued, and another guard left the hallway suppressing homicidal urges. Dreth leaned against the iron bars of his cell and observed the torch-lit hallway. One of the torches went out, though the dunmer barely noticed it. A few moments later the same happened again. He might have ignored it, but the torches were the second and first from the door. Very soon the third torch sputtered out as well.

Trepidation gripped Valen Dreth. His palms began sweating, and he watched the torches steadily die out. Finally it was pitch black, and Dreth's agitation was replaced with helplessness and raw terror. He was trapped, he couldn't do anything. He closed his eyes and tried to listen, but he heard nothing: no footsteps, no breathing, no rustle of cloth. A high-pitched shriek made Dreth jump back in surprise. He opened his eyes and realized the door of his cell was now ajar.

With unsteady steps he approached the entrance of his cell. Standing on the threshold, he realized he was _afraid to leave his cell_. The irony escaped him, scared as he was. He closed his eyes and listened again, and once again heard nothing. Valen Dreth took a deep breath and then stepped forward, skewering himself on the poisoned blade waiting for him.

Valen Dreth realized, as he drew his last breath, that everything in life had a price. Even words.

* * *

_A/N: Hi, kids. Thanks for all the positive and constructive feedback. I was originally very unsure about the whole idea of Victims. I'm glad that you're enjoying it. I like writing these, since they let me do some unconventional storytelling and because they're nice and short to write. Dark Brotherhood questline-wise, I'm making the first skip here. The more experienced (or ones blessed with a good memory) might remember that after Dreth's execution it's time for Mr. Motierre and his fake death. Well, I won't be doing that. Only a bunch of zombies die during the quest, and I'm not going to bother writing about the off-screen offing of Motierre's mother. Also, it might be a while until the next update anyway. I've got some other stories I'll be focusing on (for those following Serpent in White, the latest chapter is written, but is currently undergoing the beta process). In the meantime, keep that feedback coming!_

_Regards, PJ_


End file.
